Blinding
by barefootbean
Summary: It's blue sea-glass in the cradle of her palm - and she's found his soul. Zelos/Sheena, and a questionable identity.


**[A/N]:** This here is an odd ball quirky piece I've had in my head for a while now. It was originally supposed to be something much smaller, but then it morphed into something more complex and eqally crazy. It's rather detailed, and obscure, and has bizarre references (I say this as I'm still scratching my head as I ponder where I came up with this), but it was a fun piece to write, and I'm fairly content with it. It doesn't really have a plot so much as I'm just fooling around with Zelos' crazy side - because he's awesomely broken and complex like that and hur hur hur I just have a lot of feelings for the guy okay? Okay. ;;

* * *

**blue sea-glass**  
you picked me up  
and stuffed me in your pocket  
rough and sharp  
a broken shard  
-of a poor man's bottle-

_**/blinding/**_

_**.o.**_

It's not quite blinding, he thinks, though judging by the way he struggles to keeps his eyes open as the spots begin to form, it's a possibility he doesn't discard just yet.

Zelos knows, watching the sky ripple as clouds move in for the evening, shades of gray and black in the folds of others—he knows, that in reality, he jumped off the deep end years ago. A step and a leap; a crystal in his hand; he went for a swim and never came back.

Too bad, he thinks, that it's impossible for a Chosen to abandon their duties once granted.

He'd have dumped his years ago.

**.o.**

He figures that, if self-perseverance had ever been a concern at one point during the madness, he's long since forgotten the terms. In the streets, in the shady hotels, and in the arms of women where he could salvage himself and pray to Martel that some sense of goodness would come from this—distractions seemed to be everything. If they could recall his face, his wings, his cries—he'd at least have the privilege of knowing he'd left some mark of his past self—and not another failed attempt at a world regeneration too old, too traditional, for anyone to know the wiser of its fake significance after his death.

But he knew. And Lloyd knew. And Sheena knew. And she said it was stupid as they stumbled back from hell, arm in arm and much too close and skin too hot and souls far too broken by the night—and he couldn't have agreed more—though whether it was with her ragged breathing that said she was serious, she thought of him seriously (or that this was simply a very serious matter, of course) or her words, both echoed over his head—and didn't come back again.

**.o.**

Nobody would remember him once he disappeared. He was simply a black pawn in a game of checkers; and nobody needed pawns for checkers.

Zelos shook off the snow, and dusted off his shoes. Shed his thick skin, and let the chips fall. Spilled out his wings, and wished them away just as quick. Clutched his arm, rubbed fake feelings into it in a lecherous mess, and ignored the ugly splatters of snow as they trailed him up the stairs and all the way to the bathroom—where he promptly emptied the contents of his rolling stomach and bit back the bitterness as it scalded his palate and he hissed like steam.

"Nobody's born to die," Lloyd had said, but what did that mean? What did that prove? What could he do?

Zelos had forgotten how to believe. He's a broken soul, floating through life. Lloyd's there, picking up the group, catching Colette every time she trips and saves a life, dragging Sheena out of holes and reassuring himself all at once—but when Zelos stumbles, it won't be a slip up.

His pieces will scatter—and no one will want to touch him then. Pieces of blue glass—the sea never officially smoothed out his edges.

**.o.  
**

Sheena had her objections—but it wasn't her place to voice them. And they both knew it.

Against the backdrop of Flanoir's bitter and cold icy landscape, Zelos found it a wonder that, even with the cloak and the gloves and the unnecessary scarf and the furry boots Colette had helped him purchase just for the occasion, his legs still tremble as the flakes gather in his hands, and settle there, against his chest and against the base of his throat. And against the railing, standing outside the Church of Martel, where the view over the city is greatest and yellow lights create a brilliant backdrop of luminescent sunny glows, the only impression he perceives is the brilliant blinding whiteness—and he forgets all the rest when the fog rolls in and he settles in brilliant smoke and nothing is crystal clear except for Sheena's voice when she dares to speak and rupture the calm.

In the shadows, against the stained glass windows of the Church, the snow is red. Against his hands, against his skin, snows melts clear and seeps into the folds of his clothes, where gradually, if he stands still for long enough, freezes like clippers. When he pulls of his jacket and lets himself fall backward into the cold and allows gravity to claim its prize, its a wonder that, even after all these fragmented fantasies he's created for himself, the jewel at his chest is still much too real, and the scars upon his flesh stretch far too wide that when his wings stretch out like elastic stretched too tight, fabric strings coming loose—his skin bears a groan.

He stuffs his hands into the bank, and holding them there, wills the memories away. They rise like the fog rolling in, thick and heavy, and when he clears his find, forces himself to look at the future Lloyd's handed to him, presented him with three simple words of courage, Zelos finds even then, that in this place, the dreams are always close behind. They fall from the clouds in gentle silver crystals—but they don't match his own, and they don't feel kind.

"Zelos, you need to get over this fear. You helped me deal with Corrine... when he passed. And now, it's my turn to do the same. I'm going to repay my debt, whether you want my help or not—and don't even try to deny it, because you need me, and I... need _you_ to need _me_. Alright?"

It's irony, he thinks, that he should be inclined to feel anything right now. It's simply easier to fumble, but catching things is only half the issue; it's impossible when he was born to be a master fisherman: catch and release—and then catch again and never give back and keep on taking right until the very end when there's nothing left to take. Sheena's right there, watching like she always does, watching like a mother watches her children, offering up her soul and baring the scars they both share–

And he can't take it.

His head follows next into the frozen carpet, deeper, deeper still—and when his cheeks are numb and he's certain his lips are a lovely shade of purple that would send all the women into a frenzy if they could see him (_she_ would deny him), only then does Zelos force himself to stagger to his feet. Alone, out here, in the nothingness where black and white contrast like the opposites they are, he sees himself in their reflections, and ponders, that if he had only been born to live and not to die, would there still be a side of him that says its okay to hate yourself? It's a heavy thought to bear, a heavy burden, and, with a rage that's no surprise as the climax climbs and builds and finally collapses—Zelos lets his arm beat at the railing, and when he hears the crack, listens for the silent screaming, and understands what he's done to himself, he finds he doesn't have the strength to cry anymore. He's broken, he's fragmented, and the sky is snowing red flakes now, and Sheena's standing right there and he can't force himself to look at her like she's looking at him—_really_ looking at him, like she can see past all those bitter walls of a pitiful boy, like she's really seeing _him_ and not his shadow or the shadow of a boy he once was, that she once knew (still knows, still sees, he can't throw her)—but he doesn't care. He's sunk too deep in the waters, and here, the cold is almost alluring.

Here, the cold is a comfort. And exhaustion takes its time carving its scars, breaking him down.

The frost licks at his skin and collects in his hair, and, curling up like he did when he was smaller, Zelos buries his head in his arms and nearly bites off his own stupid tongue as he wishes for a better tomorrow, whispers it in silence because it can only ever be heard in the quiet (though he's never quiet - and the snow isn't quiet, it's deafening). Even in the shade, in the dark, he still hears her, and when Sheena's arms encircle his back, he lets his shoulders heave without words, without sounds, and lays everything bare, lets her drown herself here, because it doesn't matter—but it should and does matter, _dammit._ She matters. She _matters_. _Sheena matters_.

He's so exposed that even when her fingers start to set in on the pain coursing up his arm, and he can taste the iron of days past when accidents happen even onto her, it's no wonder that the pain is shared, and he wonders if she's going to start crying, too, because she's hiding her face—and he likes it uncovered better.

"You've always been my number one voluptuous hunny," he says, a bit hysterically because instead of crying he's laughing the kind of laugh that makes his chest ache, and he wonders if that's fear he sees in her eyes when her fingers begin to quake. Not at him, not with fury, not to hit him, he realizes—but_ for_ _him_—his heart beats weakly against his frozen cavities—because this is only one part of himself and not the whole she's pulling forth from the depths of soul, drawing back like a moth to a burning lamp, grasping at with equally freezing fingers and stubborn eye lines that form little crows feet where the glare and resolve meet and dare cross.

"Shut up, Zelos. I still am," she says calmly, "so take a look around you, pull yourself together now—and _think_. Bear with me here."

He notices the insomnia on her face, takes in these questionable words (hardly words of wisdom), and even he knows a heart alone is a heavy burden to bear and twice the weight would surely crush them both to the ground if he dared share his with hers despite her display of strength. Certainly, his is only dead weight by now, and her's so startlingly strong he envies her ability to feel like he no longer can. His heart sunk to the ocean floor, out his feet, through the grasses and beneath the lake beds of Meltokio—out of sight, and out of mind, on a snowy evening night—but even with despair carrying him off, not quite out of reach—and not that far off from shore.

She picked him up, and collected his shell—and was gluing him back together at the edges, piece by piece by piece, ribbons in her hair and stars in her eyes—because he'd long ago ran out of needles for stitching—and she knew he didn't like needles (damn needles – damn injections – damn doctors covered in red).

"You'll probably regret putting up with a bastard like me," he quips, almost drunkenly but not quite so because he's as sober and cocky as ever and only as drunk on her skin as he is on death and intoxicated by five brands of misery—and her skin is nearly as numb as his, and unhappily, he wonders how long she's watched him bathe in pity, wash his locks with it and roll around in it and curse it because he could. _Did you see me?_ _Did you really _see_ me?_ he asks, but Sheena doesn't speak. It's not a question, because she's never been blinded by the snow like he was—rather, dazzled by it, and he can tell because it shimmers in her eyes—much like the lightning that had sent her swimming once, too.

She picks him up off the ground, dusts off the snow and kicks away the red tides with the side of a boot. She pulls his hair back, straightens his cloak, tugs on his arms when he lets them dangle uselessly at his sides, numb and – unsurprisingly – utterly useless—like always, his wings spread wide behind him like an avenger of truth, pink and red and _red like his mother's beautiful crown of hair_—because he's awake and he's alive and unfortunately there's a light at this end of the tunnel, and she's holding the candle to her chest like a maiden like she did when she was young at the grand festivals in Meltokio that lit up her eyes and turned his into brittle forms of withered blue sea-glass.

_Pretty, isn't it?_ she giggled, and picked him up and stuck him in her pocket.

_It's late_, she says coolly now, watching the church doors, observing his breath light the air like the steam from a bath, and he contemplates the unforgiving silence, and her bright charismatic view of the world. Like Lloyd, but her idealism isn't a wrecking ball, and like him, her front is a weakness they both share in, and like him, they've both drowned once.

Her hands tug on him, prompt him to speak, but her grip alone is enough to keep him centered through it all, and they have a whole conversation without the need for words because she's versatile, dammit, and he never thought there'd be a time when words weren't enough to tell her how he feels.

"It could be worse," she mentions when they finish, and Zelos realizes she's talking about the bruise forming on his flesh—not the one on his heart, though that one still stings, too—almost as much as his vulnerability.

"Good thing you're here to keep me from straying, right then babe?" he questions, and dodges her first hit, but not the second, which stings like hell but still feels great because Sheena's all kinds of warm when she's angry and he'd never have it any other way.

"Damn straight," she says, trying to keep the fake smile off her face (because nothing's funny here - nothing at all), and the world falls where it should. There are no contrasts to be seen, even though the frost on his cruxis crystal makes everything ache, and the inn's bed is as hard as a rock, and his wings are as annoying as hell.

(though, they saved her, so they can't be that bad...)

She dumps him in it like a sack of grain, stumbling stumbling stumbling as she slips out of his grasp, out of warmth—but never out of reach, and with only the slightest hesitation, settles in the rocking chair near the window, constantly looking out, but never looking in. She's had enough, too much, too much rawness and too much pain for one day - one life. Zelos watches her, questions whether this shadow of a girl is only another woman he'll wake up to the next morning and find gone within the hour, and thinks of blue sea-glass blue sea-glass blue sea-glass and maidens in purple (though she's no maiden and he knows better than to think it when she talks to him and looks at him and recognizes him and sees him like a friend and not a Chosen and a savior not a victim).

She doesn't move though, and somehow, he manages to avoid drowning in the burrow of quilts she's given him. He's swallowed enough water as it is. He doesn't need anymore.

"Sleep," she murmurs, shifting like a shadow only real and within reach and soft, soft skinned and oddly as hard as a mollusk (only ten times more beautiful). "I'll be here. So don't forget that."

And he doesn't. Even when he wakes in the middle of the night and finds warmth against his side, seeks it out, and brushes Sheena's head in her arms and her torso dangling stubbornly in the angle of her chair and her neck at such an odd position he wonders for a moment if she's broken it—he doesn't speak, and simply breathes. It's such a great relief, to breathe, and feel, and feel the aches as his throat closes up and feel the reality of dried crust around his eyes tug when he struggles to see and feel the broken wrist he's just wrought upon himself as he strokes her hair (and she none the wiser).

He thinks of candles and wings and trust and red red snow (much like his mother's lovely hair – much like_ his_) and finds something in her hands when he reaches over to grasp one, smooth and soft and cool to the touch, and sharp at the edges.

He tugs, and the world's fallen into place, his vision snaps at him like a dose of cold water.

It's blue sea-glass in the cradle of her palm—and she's found his soul.


End file.
